The Lost Child of Gallifrey Voldemort's Daughter?
by TwirlingFlamesOfTardisBlue
Summary: She is the 'daughter' of He Who Must Not Be Named. But she's never questioned why he adopted her. Never realised he wants her because she is an undiscovered race. Never, until two mysterious 'timelords' turn up at Hogwarts.


My story starts, like so many others, with a hairbrush.

Well, okay. Not really what I meant to say. I _meant_, with getting out of bed.

Then I stepped on the hairbrush. It's purple, plastic, and looks like Rachel Dare's, the one she threw at Kronos. If you get what I mean.

Sometimes I am so thankful I learned occlumency young. I would certainly be tortured if daddy dear knew I was making Muggle references.

The point is, even if that hairbrush had a twin that saved lives in a fictional story, it just made my day hell.

I wish I had my wand, to heal my now bleeding foot. But daddy dear doesn't let me have my wand except when I'm with him.

I grin a little. Time to really try out my secret practicing. I point my finger at the cut in my foot and whisper '_episky_!'

The spell shoots out of my finger, and I hear the usual sound I get in my head when I cast magic.

The cut heals partially, as I am still not very good at wandless magic. Seeing the blood on my carpet I point at it and say '_scourgify_'. It cleans up nicely. With the sound. Again.

Grabbing my now clean hairbrush, I run it through my cornflower blue hair. I think it's the result of a spell gone wrong when I was little. It's been this bright shade of blue for as long as I can remember.

Tossing on a delicate looking lavender dress, black leggings, black socks, black lace jumper and my black high heeled boots, I pull my hair up into a very high ponytail.

On my way out of my room I look at my reflection. Some people use false modesty. I hate it. I know I'm pretty, and although I sometimes find it rather creepy, I don't think it's strange that every male Death Eater can't keep their eyes off me. Let me rephrase that. _Every_ male.

I stride down the spiral staircase in my manor. Well, I call it mine. Only daddy dear and I are ever here, and he spends most of his time elsewhere.

He's sitting at his end of our table. His chair, more like a throne, is also host to Nagini. Nagini is a little warped, but she's alright to talk to. Anyway. Only He can make sitting and reading a wizard's newspaper look evil and powerful. Although the giant snake could help with that look.

"Good morning, father." I say, as he has not yet noticed me come down the stairs. Or he just chose to ignore me.

"Indeed it is, Rosella. Take a look at this." He states coldly as usual, tapping another copy of the Daily Prophet.

I pick it up, my eyes immediately caught by the headline. "Harry Potter: Disturbed and Dangerous!"

I start reading aloud.

_"The boy who defeated He Who Must Not Be Named is unstable and possibly dangerous, writes Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondent. Alarming evidence has recently come to light about Harry Potter's strange behaviour, which casts doubts upon his suitability to compete in a demanding competition like the Triwizard Tournament, or even to attend Hogwarts School. Potter, the Daily Prophet can exclusively reveal, regularly collapses at school, and is often heard to complain of pain in the scar on his forehead (relic of the curse with which You Know Who attempted to kill him). On Monday last, midway through a Divination lesson, your Daily Prophet reporter witnessed Potter storming from the class, claiming that his scar was hurting too badly to continue studying. It is possible, say top experts at St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, that Potter's brain was affected by the attack inflicted upon him by You-Know-Who, and that his insistence that the scar is still hurting is an expression of his deep-seated confusion. "He might even be pretending," said one specialists. "This could be a plea for attention." The Daily Prophet, however, has unearthed worrying facts about Harry Potter that Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts, has carefully concealed from the wizarding public. "Potter can speak parsletounge," reveals Draco Malfoy, a Hogwarts fourth year."_

I snort. "Good luck trying to get any help now, Potter!"

He laughs. _"There were a lot of attacks on students a couple of years ago, and most people thought Potter was behind them after they saw him lose his temper at a duelling club and set a snake on another boy."_

I read ahead. "This is from the day before yesterday?" I question.

"This is from the day before yesterday." He states.

I sigh, frustrated. Time to rephrase. "Why are you reading the day before yesterday's newspaper?"

"Well, I wasn't exactly around two days ago. Nor was I reading newspapers yesterday."

I frown. "Where does 'he who must not me named' get a newspaper from, anyway?"

"I have my ways."

"Father, are you stealing the Malfoy's newspapers?" I don't know quite why I feel so cheerful today. Given that my foot is cut... "Can I use my wand for a moment?"

He passes it to me, carefully. Sometimes I think he's afraid of me when I have my wand. I sit on my own, smaller throne, and pull off my boot and sock, before whispering a quick healing spell. Inside my head, four beats of a drum sound.

My foot heals perfectly, and I put my sock and shoe back on. Then I hand my wand back to my father.

He takes it, asking, "How did you do that?"

I grimace. "I stepped on my hairbrush."

He comes the closest I have ever seen him to a true laugh.


End file.
